where the heart is
by professortennant
Summary: AU: Jean Beazley is a single parent who has hired Lucien Blake to take care of her two boys while she works. They never anticipated falling in love.
1. Chapter 1

"Alright boys, marching orders: clean your bedrooms and meet me back here in the kitchen. Dismissed!" He barked the orders at the two boys with a grin and watched them fondly as they scampered off, eager to complete their chores and return to him. They knew what kitchen time meant: baking.

Lucien shook his head, listening to Jack and Christopher, Jr. bicker the way all young boys do. For a moment, his heart clenched in his chest–his thoughts drifting to his own daughter, long lost to him now. With a deep breath, he pushed those thoughts back down into a box in the furthest corners of his mind.

Being around the Beazley boys had soothed a hurt in his soul. He had come to the Beazley home a few months ago, shortly after his return to Ballarat. The military had changed him; _war_ had changed him. He could not look at medicine the same way, couldn't trust his shaky hands to treat and heal when they had done so much damage, had taken life.

Puling out the bowls and whisks and necessary bits and bobs, he decided they would make lemon bars in preparation for Jean's arrival home. The thought of her face pinching at the first hit of sour on her tongue and then melting away into delectable pleasure had Lucien grinning, eager to please.

He tried not to think too hard on the increased patter of his heart at the thought of his employer. Jean was–well, Jean was everything to him. Despite her hesitance at hiring a male caretaker for the boys, she had taken a chance on him. Perhaps she had seen his desperation to _care_ for someone for once; to tend to a home and be a part of family.

* * *

In any case, she had looked at him with sparkling eyes and the sunlight was streaming in behind her, illuminating her in a halo, and had welcomed him into her home. And he loved her for it.

He'd never dare tell her–no. Jean deserved someone whole and undamaged; not someone like him.

The sound of racing feet alerted him to the return of Jack and Christopher and before he knew it, the boys were wrapping themselves around him, cheeks flushed with excitement. "All done, Lucien!"

He put on a stern look but the smile twitching at his lips gave him away. "If I go and check your rooms, I won't find a toy out of place? Or a shirt unfolded?"

The boys dissolved into giggles and mock-saluted him, "Sir, no, sir!"

He clapped his hands and rubbed them together, "Right then! Wash your hands and get your aprons on, boys. If we hurry, we can have these cooled in time for your mum when she gets home."

* * *

Jean walked into her home, shoulders stiff and hands sore. She had taken up cleaning homes for half of Ballarat–a much more profitable job to support her and her boys than the oft-struggling farm. It had been a _long_ day today and she was simply grateful to be home. Toeing off her shoes and shrugging her coat off, she called out, "Boys? Lucien? I'm home!"

But there was no answer, only the sound of laughter and clanging bowls and childlike screeches. Curiously, she walked through the house, following the sounds until she reached the kitchen.

The sight that greeted her made her melt.

Lucien and her boys were running around the kitchen, absolutely covered head-to-toe in flour, screaming with delight as they threw handfuls of flour at each other. Jack and Christopher's behinds were covered in Lucien-shaped flour handprints and Lucien's own hair and face was streaked with flour and melted butter.

The kitchen was a disaster and, to her stomach's delight, there was a plate of lemon bars stacked next to the sink. She leaned against the doorjamb and crossed her hands over her chest, simply enjoying the scene before her.

But her presence didn't go unnoticed for long. Lucien skidded to a halt and the boys crashed into him, still trying to smear batter and butter over the other.

"Jean! You're home early! We were just, uh–"

"Just making a mess in my kitchen."

Lucien and the boys looked at one another, shamefaced, already making apologies and promising to clean it up right away. She grinned, stepping further into the kitchen and inspecting the damage. She picked up a handful of flour and turned to face them, arm raised and ready, " _Run."_

With a shout her boys and Lucien took off again, dodging her own flour attacks. Lucien was giving them orders, "Don't break rank, boys! We outnumber her!"

The laughter filled the kitchen and Jean could forget for a moment that Lucien was just her employee; paid to take care of her family and be here. For a moment, she could pretend he was hers–well and truly–and he was a father to the boys and this was all real.

Maybe one day she'd tell him how much she loved him. But, she thought as she was chased out of the kitchen, Lucien and Jack and Christopher ganging up on her, today was not that day.


	2. Chapter 2

Lucien entered the Beazley home, closing his eyes and inhaling deeply. Already, his nerves felt calmer and he felt more at peace. He tried not to worry that he was becoming too dependent on the way he felt when he was in this house; tried not to think about the fact that this was the only place that felt safe and warm; that this was the only place that felt like home.

Before he could even hang up his hat and coat, he was tackled around the legs by two exuberant boys, "Lucien's here!" They beamed up at him, small hands clutched at this pant leg. He returned their smile and ruffled their hair, "Evening, boys!"

"What are we doing tonight, Lucien?" Jack asked, holding onto his leg as Lucien stomped through the house, loving the sound of the boys giggles as he went for a ride on his leg. Christopher Jr. followed closely behind, eager to hear what tonight's adventure would be.

"Well, I thought we could go hunting for some _fee."_ He dropped his voice into a low whisper, dragging out the vowels and inspiring a sense of spookiness.

Both boys looked at him in wonder, "What are _fee?"_ They tripped over the odd-sounding pronunciation, eager to learn.

Lucien explained, "They're little fairies that live amongst the plants and green things, brewing up all sorts of trouble." He smiled softly to himself before adding, "My mother and I used to hunt for them in the garden in our home. I thought you boys might like to do the same?"

* * *

Both boys nodded vigorously, looking up at him in awe. "Excellent!" Lucien rubbed his hands together. "Right then, Christopher, go get a saucer and fill it with some milk so we can leave it out for them. Jack, you go get a torch. Then both of you put on your best clothes and meet me in the back garden."

Christopher scrunched his nose up, confused. "Our best clothes? Why?"

Lucien ducked low, remembering the words his mother had once told him, "You always meet a _fee_ when you're at your best, Christopher. First impressions, eh?"

Both boys nodded at him solemnly before scampering off, leaving Lucien shaking his head fondly in the living room. He really should go check in with Jean.

It was unusual for her to ask him to watch the boys in the evening and he was desperate–and a little afraid–to know why she needed his services this evening. Winding through the house and headed for her bedroom, he realized with some dismay that it would be silly for him to expect Jean to remain single forever.

She was incredibly beautiful, yes, but she was just _bright_. She shone in every room she walked into, making everyone's life better and brighter just by existing.

And he was hopelessly in love with her. And hopelessly beneath her.

For now, he was content with being her friend and confidante, the man she entrusted her boys to, the man on the fringe of her family.

Arriving at her bedroom door he hesitated only briefly before knocking and calling out softly, "Jean? It's Lucien."

He heard some mumbling and movement behind the door before it was opened and he felt his heart stop and restart in his chest. In the doorway, stood an angel.

Jean was dressed in an elegant, burgundy dress that wrapped around her figure most alluringly. Her makeup was applied heavier than normal and thick, dark lines outlined her eyes, making the steel blue pop. Her hair was curled perfectly, falling in soft waves around her face.

"Wow," he said softly, eyes taking her in.

"Hello, Lucien." Jean blushed at his soft exhalation and turned, sweeping the hair from her neck. "Do you mind just helping me with the zipper?"

Lucien licked his lips and lifted a trembling hand up to her back, tugging at the zip. His knuckles brushed against her skin as he pulled the zip up and wondered if he imagined her shiver at his touch or not.

He cleared his throat, buttoning the clasp at the top of her dress. "What's the occasion?" His fingers lingered at the top of the clasp and he allowed himself to touch, just this once, and his fingertips ghosted over the soft skin of her neck.

"There, all done."

Jean turned to face him, beaming and a slight flush to her cheeks. She smoothed her hands down over her dress and sighed. "Truthfully, I'd rather be here with you and the boys, but Patrick Tyneman invited me to this silly debutante function and well," she shrugged, helplessly. "It's quite difficult to say no to a Tyneman."

Lucien scowled, hand coming to rest on her shoulder reassuringly. "Did he force you or threaten you, Jean? Because I can–"

She shook her head, softly, and covered his hand with hers. "No, no, nothing like that, Lucien. But thank you. Patrick is just," she sighed. "Patrick is a client and maybe a friend and truth be told, I couldn't bring myself to say no. Plus, when else would I have a chance to wear this?"

With a laugh she twirled on the spot, finishing in a self-deprecating 'ta-da' gesture. Lucien wasn't laughing. His hand brushed down her arm, voice low and serious. "Anyone would be lucky to take you out and see you in this, Jean."

Jean blushed and bit her lip, peering up at him from behind thick eyelashes. He held her gaze and everything in his heart was bubbling up on the tip of his tongue–how much he adored her, how much she meant to him, how much he loved those boys as much as if they were his own, how much he loved them all.

Her eyes were dark and her mouth parted and did she feel this, too? Were those same words bubbling upon her tongue? He opened his mouth, "Jean, I–"

And then two boys were throwing themselves around his waist, tugging on his suit jacket and the moment was over.

"Lucien! We've been in the back garden for ages! C'mon!"

He cleared his throat, shaking his head a little. "Too right, boys." He turned to them and bowed low, "My sincerest apologies." They dissolved into giggles, Jack piping up, "Lucien, you're so weird."

"Alright boys, let's go find some _fee!"_ Two pairs of little hands tugged at his suit jacket and Lucien hurried to reassure Jean that everything would be fine and to enjoy herself.

"Oh, and Jean?" He called out over his shoulder, unable to resist. "You really do look beautiful."

And with that, Jean watched as he and her boys disappeared down the stairs, chanting about mystical beings that live amongst the plants and take care of the families of the gardens they live in.

Jean sighed, picking up her handbag and walking towards the front door and an evening out with Patrick Tyneman. She couldn't help but feel that she was walking away from an evening much better spent with the boys and Lucien, hunting for creatures in the back garden, their faces illuminated by the moonlight and the torchlight.

Maybe one day…


	3. Chapter 3

"But Lucien, why can't we let off fireworks _now_?" Both Jack and Christopher were looking longingly at the box of fireworks Jean had purchased for them earlier in the week.

He couldn't help but laugh at the expressions on their faces, "Boys, even if you did light them now, you wouldn't be able to see them! It's not dark yet. And don't you want to wait until the rest of the street is celebrating?"

New Year's Eve had crept up on him. He'd been part of the Beazley home now for almost seven months and yet it felt like a lifetime and no time at all. If he were a braver man, he'd perhaps ask Jean to kick off the new year with him as more than his employer. But each time he tried, the words got stuck in his throat and his heart felt like it would pound straight out of his chest.

Turning back to the laundry in front of him, he turned his attention to the boys. "Your mother will be home soon and you can all sit outside tonight and blast off fireworks until one of you burns yourself."

Jack and Christopher both looked at each other, pointing at the other, "You're going to burn yourself first."

He folded another shirt and reached for the already-folded towels in the basket, handing a stack to each of the boys. "Now, go put these in the cupboard and go entertain yourselves before I put you both on laundry duty."

Both boys scampered away, already goading the other into racing down the hallway. Lucien laughed at their antics, wishing he'd be able to spend the evening with them, watching their faces light up in awe at each blast of color in the sky. He wished he'd be around for midnight when Jean would turn to him and he could risk a kiss under the guise of tradition.

But he'd discovered many years ago that some wounds ran too deep and the sound of firecrackers were too similar to the sounds of bullets and bombshells. It would be better for everyone if he was alone tonight.

* * *

He resumed his quiet task of folding clothing and bedding and towels. There was a quiet domesticity to this that he cherished. No matter the fact that this was what Jean _paid_ him to do, he felt as if he was taking care of her and her family in these gestures. He liked knowing that when Jean came home from a long day, her home was clean and organized and cared for.

He lost himself in the steady rhythm of laundry: pull, shake, fold, tuck away. Repeat.

And then there was a quick succession of _pops_ and _cracks._

In a distant, rationale part of his mind he identified the sounds as firecrackers: just pale imitations of something far worse, loud and noisy and flashes of light but _safe._

But Lucien's rationale mind was long gone, cowering beneath powerful, suffocating fear and memories. Suddenly, he couldn't breathe, couldn't think.

He needed to get cover; to get the boys to safety; to remember his training and to get down low and cover his head and ride it out until the firing stopped.

The pounding of his heart spiked his anxiety and he was seeing black spots in his vision, but he needed to find safety. The laundry was dropped on the floor and he was racing throughout the halls, frantically calling for the boys but they weren't responding.

A million thoughts ran through his head–the enemy had them, he'd failed them, they were _hurt, oh god…_

The breath left his body and he couldn't remember how to fucking breathe, not when terror gripped his lungs and he couldn't think straight and where were the boys. His chin trembled and he tried to bite back tears: there was no place for tears now, but the panic was rising, rising, rising.

His knees gave out and he slid down the hallway wall, buring his face in his hands, moaning, " _No, please. No."_

And then small, trembling hands were shaking him, cupping his face and he lashed out, pushing them aside, ignoring the soft _oof_ of the person he pushed aside. All he could think was that the enemy was _here_. They were going to take him back to the camp, they were going to lock him away and take him from his home. He needed to run. He needed to hide.

"Lucien! Lucien, it's us! It's Jack and Christopher! Lucien!"

He opened his eyes, trembling. Christopher was curled up on the floor, holding his shoulder, looking up at him with teary eyes. Jack was staring back at him, eyes terrified and pleading.

It all came rushing back to him and suddenly he was back in the present. Swallowing harshly, he turned to Jack. "Jack, I need you to go phone your mum, alright? She needs to come back home."

Jack nodded, still scared, and ran for the kitchen phone. Lucien turned his attention back to Christopher, still curled up on the floor. He reached out to the boy, intending to help him up and look at his shoulder, but the boy flinched and scrambled backwards.

All warmth flooded out of his body, leaving behind an icy cold. Christopher was _scared_. Of _him._ He was a monster.

Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, Lucien moved towards the boy again, hands held in supplication. "Christopher, I'm so, so sorry. I–" But how could he explain to an 11-year old how broken he was? How scared he was?

"I need to look at that shoulder. Can you move it?"

He watched as Christopher prodded at his own shoulder, moving it around stiffly, still wary of Lucien standing before him. He nodded at Lucien. "It's okay, I think."

Lucien sat back down, rubbing at his forehead. "I need you to go into the kitchen, get some ice for your shoulder and wait with Jack in the living room until your mother gets home. I think," he took in a deep, shuddering breath. "I think it's best if I stay here."

With a pang in his heart, Lucien watched as Christopher headed for the kitchen, still throwing glances over his shoulder at the man behind him.

Lucien sat in the hallway, head buried in his hands, listening to the quiet murmurs of the boys from the living room, waiting the judgment from Jean. He would resign immediately, of course. Now knowing he couldn't be trusted around her children, how could she keep him on?

He let out a dry sob. He'd been so close to having everything he wanted: family, love, warmth. But he was so _broken_. This was the proof.

Moments later, he heard Jean arrive, heard the boys run to her and heard the murmurs and the cries. He sat, frozen, terrified. And then she was rounding the corner and walking towards him like he was a wild animal, steps slow and gestures measured.

"Lucien?" Her voice was soft, questioning.

He waved her off, "I'm okay, now. I–" He looked up at her, eyes wet. "I _hurt_ Christopher, Jean. I am _so sorry_. I don't know what happened. It was like I was back in the war and I, I know it's no excuse." He wiped at his face and sighed. "I'll leave now. I wanted to make sure the boys were looked after before I left. I just–I'm so sorry."

Lucien moved to stand but Jean was there, a hand on his shoulder and pushing him back down. "Sit."

He did as she asked and stared up at her, wondering what she wanted for him. He apologized. He resigned. Did she want to press charges as well? He was uncertain.

To his amazement, Jean sat down next to him–pressed together shoulder to thigh. She took his hand in hers, turning his hand over and stroking over his palm and wrist.

"Jean," he rasped out, shuddering at the contact. He didn't deserve this, didn't deserve her touch or her kindness.

She hushed him and continued stroking his hand as she gathered her thoughts. Licking her lips, she looked at him from the corner of her eye. "Christopher and Jack snuck out into the yard and set off the rapid-fire firecrackers. They're designed to sound like gunfire, Lucien. I know you would never, ever hurt my son on purpose. You're a _good_ man."

He let out a noise of protest, but she tightened her hold on his hand in warning. "You _are_ and I won't hear a word against it. I told the boys to wait until you were gone to play with those. I," she bit her lip. "I thought it may be difficult for you."

He let out a hollow laugh. "And you were right. I can't be trusted, Jean." He looked down at their joined hands. "With me, it will always be a bit messier. I'm not _normal_."

Jean sighed and rested her head against his shoulder. "I don't trust anyone more than I trust you–with _everything_ –Lucien. You went through something awful, truly awful, and came out of it alive."

Lucien closed his eyes against her words. They touched something fragile inside of him, something he wasn't ready to face or accept yet. Jean adjusted her head on his shoulder, pressing herself against him more, grounding him to this moment, their hands entwined.

"If you ever want to talk about it, I will be here to listen. Always."

Something inside of Lucien shuddered and broke at her offer and he turned into her, awkwardly wrapping himself around her, burying his face in her neck, tears soaking the collar of her blouse. He gasped out, "I'm sorry, Jean. I'm so, so sorry. _I'm sorry."_

She simply held him and stroked her hands over his back and neck and the curls of his hair, murmuring reassurances and soft, meaningless words into his ear.

He pulled away, wiping at his face, ashamed at his actions of the day. Everything felt raw and exposed and he just wanted to hide. But Jean hooked her fingers under his chin and forced his eyes to meet hers, "You're going to be okay, Lucien."

The moment hung between them and he realized how closely their faces were. He could count some of the freckles that dotted over the bridge of her nose and could feel the gentle puffs of her breath warming his lips. Their legs and bodies were entwined, awkwardly pressed together against the hallway wall.

Standing and offering his hand to Jean, he helped her to his feet and they both made their way to the living room where two young boys waited for them. Turning to Jean for permission, who rolled her eyes but nodded, Lucien approached them both, keeping his movements controlled.

The last thing he wanted to do was scare them further.

He knelt on one knee in front of them and cleared his throat. "Jack, Christopher. I am so sorry if I scared you today. And Christopher," he turned pleading eyes onto the boy. "I am so sorry I pushed you away and hurt your shoulder. I never, ever want to hurt you–either of you."

He continued, the words sticking in his throat but determined to get them out. "I'm sick, boys."

Jack piped up, "Like you have the flu?"

Lucien laughed at him, shaking his head. "No, Jack, not like the flu. It's like," he searched for the words, trying to explain. Thankfully, Jean stepped in. She crossed the room, kneeling beside him and resting her hand comfortingly on his shoulder.

"It's like having a really, really bad nightmare but you're awake. You forget where you are and who is real and who isn't and who's a monster and who's a friend and it can make you feel confused and scared. Does that make sense?"

Both boys nodded at her, looking at Lucien with bright eyes. Lucien had never felt more grateful for Jean Beazley in his life. He bumped her shoulder with his and then turned serious eyes to Jack and Christopher.

"Boys, I know that I'm sick, but I still hurt you, Christopher, and scared you both. I understand if you don't want me to look after you anymore. Your mother can find someone else for you and you won't need to see me again. It's whatever you want; no one will be mad at you, whatever you decide."

Jack's bottom lip trembled and he threw himself into Lucien's arms. "Don't go, Lucien! We can take care of you! I'd miss you if you went away." Lucien wrapped his arms around the shaking boy, rubbing his back.

"Christopher?"

The boy had been quiet throughout the entire exchange and Lucien's eyes flickered to the ice pack sitting on the boy's shoulder. He watched as Christopher took the pack off and got off the sofa, coming to stand in front of him, wringing his hands nervously.

"It's my fault, Lucien. I set off the fireworks." He looked up at Lucien, scared. "I made you sick."

Lucien's heart shattered in his chest and he opened his arms to Christopher, ushering him into his embrace. "No! Absolutely not, Christopher. This is _not_ your fault. Don't ever, _ever_ think that. Not ever."

Christopher buried his face into Lucien's neck, trembling. Lucien held both of his boys in his arms, shaking and overwhelmed, clutching them close, that ache to protect them both creeping in.

He felt Jean wrap her arms around them all, lending her strength to them. Christopher pulled away, looking seriously at Lucien. "Don't go away, Lucien. Please."

Lucien looked at Jean, helplessly, who just smiled at him. "It's unanimous. You're staying." She reached out to stroke his cheek, brushing a stray tear clinging to his beard. "It's like Jack said, we'll take care of you."

Overwhelmed, Lucien tightened his hold on the Beazley family, memorizing everything about this moment: the way Jean's fingers felt against his cheek, the smell of grass in the boys' hair, the soft heat of their bodies pressed against his own.

As he held them–his _family–_ he felt his heart slowly start to heal. He wasn't a monster. He was a man. And he was going to be okay.


	4. Chapter 4

set in this verse and this verse and this verse and wow i should tag these with something

It was inevitable, really. They're stuffed to the brim with Christmas dinner and they're lounging in the living room, a whiskey in his hand, a sherry in Jean's, and the boys are working on model rockets by the fire, sipping at hot cocoa (with extra marshmallows, per Lucien's stern insistence).

The heat of the fire adds to the sense of lazy fulfillment and Lucien tries not to think too hard about how idyllic this is, how he never thought he'd have anything close to a family, and he dedicates every feeling and every sensation to memory. He never wants to forget this.

Jean is pressed against his shoulder, humming softly under her breath and the book she was reading earlier is facedown in her lap, and Lucien fights the urge to wrap his arm around her and pull her closer. Instead, he hums along with her, smiling at her look of surprise.

He thinks to the present he has for her tucked away in his coat pocket-a turquoise brooch that's as elegant as she is and that he knows will bring out the sparkle in her eyes. Perhaps when the boys go to bed, he'll give it to her in person before leaving. Maybe he'll just leave it beneath the tree for her to find tomorrow.

Jean is nodding off against his shoulder and he notices the boys have also collapsed by the fire, snoring softly into their arms and their models laying forgotten. Allowing himself this one Christmas miracle, he turns his head and presses a kiss to the top of Jean's head, inhaling lightly.

His very own Christmas angel.

Lucien hates to do it, but the boys will have cramps in their shoulders if he doesn't get them to bed soon. He shakes Jean awake gently and he has the pleasure of watching her wake up for the first time in his life: slowly and then all at once, eyes bleary and then wide away and searching, alert. The wake-up strategy of a mum.

He smiles apologetically at her and nods towards the boys, "Better get them to bed. I'll get Christopher, you get Jack." She smiles softly at him and they both stand, crossing the warm room and scooping up the sleeping boys in their arms.

They're getting too old to be carried like this too often, but Jean treasures these moments for as long as she has them. The boys stir in their arms but snuggle further into the embrace and it's only a short walk to their bedroom before Jean and Lucien are depositing them in their beds and pulling the covers up over their shoulders.

Christopher sighs sleepily, looking up at Lucien through hooded, sleepy eyes. Lucien brushes the boys blonde hair out of his eyes and whispers, "Merry Christmas."

He receives a toothy grin and a mumbled, "Merry Christmas, Dad."

Lucien freezes and he senses Jean still behind him, his heart hammering in his chest. The moniker sounds _right_ to him and he wants so desperately to have the boys call him this, to be part of this family in truth. He leans down and brushes his lips across the boy's forehead, still warm from the fire. "Good night, son."

He switches places with Jean, who is watching him carefully, and repeats the gesture with Jack-who is passed out and already dreaming. Then, they're tiptoeing out of the room and shutting the door behind them, leaving the boys to their dreams.

Jean walks ahead of him, stooping to clear up their glasses in the living room. He looks at her, wringing his hands nervously. "Jean, I just want to be clear, that's the first time he's _ever_ referred to me that way. I would never, never encourage that without talking to you in any way and I would never try and replace Christopher's memory, believe me."

He hopes she doesn't hear the panic in his voice. As much as he loved being called _dad,_ he would never assume it would be appropriate without talking to Jean first.

Jean nods at him and crosses into the kitchen, dropping the glasses into the sink. She turns back to him, her teeth sunk into her bottom lip. "The boys were very young when Christopher died and you're the only male role model they've ever known. I'm not surprised, Lucien. And I know you'd never encourage that behind my back. I trust you."

His heart warms with her words and he aches to pull her into his arms and hold her. He can see what this costs her. Jean continues, her voice soft, nervous. "Truth is, I _liked_ hearing Christopher call you _dad_." She looks at him, tearful. "Does that make me a bad person, Lucien?"

This time, he does cross the room, tugging her into his arms and holding her tight. "No, of course not, Jean. Christopher would want you and the boys to be happy. And if I can bring any ounce of happiness to you, I'm happy to do it."

Jean pulls away, looking up into his eyes. "Oh Lucien? An ounce? You bring an immeasurable amount of happiness to our lives." She flicks her eyes down to his lips, just briefly, before returning her gaze to his. "You've brought happiness to _my_ life."

The moment hangs between them and they both realize how close they're standing at the same time, they feel the other's breath ghosting over their faces, feels their hands against their bodies.

"Jean," he whispers. He inches forward, feeling the momentousness of the occasion, feeling the butterflies flutter in the pit of his stomach. He doesn't trust happiness and today has been full of it. Maybe, just maybe, he'll push the boundaries a little further, be a little greedy and _take_ what he's wanted for the last year.

He sees Jean's eyes flutter close and he tilts his head, inching forward and their lips finally, _finally_ brush. It's gentle at first, as if neither one of them can believe this is happening. And then instinct kicks in. She wraps her hands around his neck, anchoring his mouth to hers and scraping her nails behind his ear.

Lucien's mouth is hot and demanding on hers, pressing firmly, tongue sweeping out daringly to lick at the seam of her mouth. She opens beneath him and he tastes her for the first time and can't help the moan that escapes. She's warm and spicy and he's immediately addicted.

He wants this moment to last forever; he never wants to stop kissing Jean Beazley.

They break apart, panting slightly and he can't bring himself to open his eyes-not yet-not when it could be a dream. But Jean's mouth is brushing against his lightly again, murmuring softly. "I've wanted to do that for ages."

He gathers her to him, wraps her tightly in his arms and tucks her head beneath his chin where he can keep her safe. He rasps out, "Me too, love. Me too."

The fire is still crackling in the grate and he doesn't know if this is a Christmas miracle and a dash of Christmas magic or a true shifting of their relationship, but he can't wait to find out.


	5. Chapter 5

The sound of clanging pots and pans and sizzling bacon surprised him. Normally, Jean was rushing out the door just as he was arriving at the Beazley home, pressing hasty kisses on the boys' head and squeezing his arm in a brief hello and goodbye.

Lucien hung up his coat and hat and moved into the kitchen hallway, poking his head around the corner, curious. "Morning, everyone."

The boys barely looked up at him in greeting, both squabbling over who would be able to fly the toy, electric airplane first. Rolling his eyes fondly at their antics, he looked over at Jean who had merely glanced up and smiled at him, tight and strained.

Frowning at the cool greeting, he began clearing up behind her, picking up the cutting board and bowls and dirty utensils. Jean sighed at him, "Leave it, Lucien, I can clean it up when I'm done."

Lucien shrugged her off, "No, don't worry about it. You're doing what I would normally be doing, so I'll just make myself useful." He deposited the dirty dishes in the sink and turned to her, crossing his arms over his chest and tilting his head to the side. "Speaking of, why are you here? Normally, you're rushing out to your first stop of the day."

She raised an eyebrow at him, "Just because you normally cook for my sons doesn't mean I'm incapable of doing it." The words were spoken tersely and Lucien's frown deepened. Jean was normally so cheerful and this was a far departure from her normal demeanor, even at her most sardonic.

He raised his hands in front of him, pushing himself off the counter. "Alright, just asking. I'll have the boys set the table."

* * *

Jack and Christopher's voices, he now noticed, were progressively louder and louder: " _Give it to me!" "No, it's mine!" "Christopher!" "Shut up, dummy."_

Jean slammed the spatula against the skillet, turning flashing eyes on the fighting boys. "That's enough! Both of you, go sit in your rooms until I call you for breakfast."

They tried to protest, to apologize, but Jean just crossed her arms over her chest, glaring. " _Now."_

Jack turned pleading eyes to Lucien, "Lucien! I don't want to go to my room. It's all Christopher's fault anyway and–"

But before Lucien could say anything, Jean snapped at them both. "Jack! I am your mum and I am _telling you_ to go to your room." Her voice was firm and Lucien watched as both boys trudged off to their room, shoulders slumped and dejected.

The atmosphere in the house was tense and Lucien watched warily as Jean pursed her lips and turned back to the skillet of now burning bacon. She cursed under her breath and tries to flip over the bacon, hissing as the bacon grease spat back at her and burned her hand.

She clutched at the reddened skin and Lucien stepped in, ushering her to the sink and switching on the cold water. "Here, Jean, put your hand under the water. I'll get the bandage and–"

But this seemed to push Jean's already bad mood into something darker and she snatched her hand away from his, glaring at him. "I don't need your help, Lucien. I took care of myself–and my burns–long before you came along. I'm not one of the boys–not a kid who has a hurt that you can just kiss better, alright?"

The sound of the bacon sizzling and the water running and Jean's breathing hung in the room and Lucien nodded slowly, trying not to feel hurt. "Right," he said slowly. "I'll just leave you to it. I'll get the boys ready for school then."

The fight seemed to go out of her then and she sagged forward, drying her hand on the tea towel. "Lucien, wait, I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. I appreciate you helping and-and taking care of my family." She paused and then added, softly, "And me."

She looked up at him, her face shadowed and her lips downturned in a frown. Lucien thought she looked rather helpless and lose and he fought the urge to bring her into his arms, to offer her every comfort he could. He settled for leaning against the counter, pressing his body as close next to her as he dared.

He bumped her shoulder with his, keeping his voice soft and low. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Jean seemed small suddenly, wrapping her arms around herself and leaning into Lucien's body a bit. When she spoke, her voice was wavering and broken.

"It's the anniversary of Christopher's death today."

Lucien sucked in a breath of understanding and he couldn't keep his hands to himself then, not when she was in such need of comfort. He wrapped his arms around her, tugging her into his side and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "Oh, Jean. I'm _so sorry_."

Jean's bottom lip wobbled and then she was sobbing quietly into his shoulder. Lucien's own eyes stung with tears and he held her tighter, stroking his hand over her hair. He simply held her, murmuring nonsense words of comfort. "Let it, Jean. Let it out. I've got you, I've got you."

After a few minutes, Jean pulled away, wiping at her eyes and shaking her head at herself. "I'm so sorry, I normally deal with this day a lot better. But I woke up and today it just– _hurt_."

Lucien kept his arms loosely around her, to keep a connection between them. "Grief doesn't have a schedule, Jean. We both know that."

She nodded. "I just wanted to be in control today. I wanted to make the boys breakfast and take them to his grave and make sure they don't forget him." Jean looked up at him through wet eyelashes. "I'm so scared they'll forget. That-that _I'll_ forget."

Lucien's heart broke and he sighed. "Jean, Christopher was your husband the father of those boys. You won't ever forget them. Not when Christopher Jr. bears his name and Jack is a spitting image of him. He lives in this house and in their blood." He cupped her face and brushed the remnants of her tears away. She turned her face into the touch and stepped forward further into his embrace.

Lucien held her to him and they stood there together, quietly. He spoke into her hair, "You don't have to carry this alone, Jean." She shook in his arms and sniffled, tightening her hold on him in silent thanks and acknowledgement.

"Thank you, Lucien."

He pushed her away gently. "I think there is a pair of two very confused boys waiting in their room. Go hug your sons, talk to them. I'll finish up breakfast in here and when you're all done, take them to see Christopher's grave, alright? Do you need me to call any of your jobs, make excuses for you?"

She shook her head, looking up at him in awe and gratitude. "No, I already called them all. I just– _Thank you_ , Lucien. I don't know what I would do without you."

He grinned at her, reaching around to grab the frilly apron from the counter and securing it around his neck and waist. "You'll never have to find out, if I have anything to say about it. Now, _go_." He scooted her out of the kitchen with a smile, turning back to the stove and taking the bacon out of the pan to drain and cracking open a few eggs into the skillet.

Jean paused in the doorway of the kitchen, turning to look back behind her at the man who had so effortlessly slipped into their lives and hearts and took so little for himself while giving and giving and giving to them. With just a few words of comfort and his presence, Lucien had given her the strength to carry on.

Perhaps she'd tell Christopher about Lucien, tell him they were all in good hands; tell him about the man she was falling in love with.


	6. Chapter 6

Lucien hadn't seen the boys for most of the day. They always seemed to be huddled together, throwing nervous glances at Lucien before urgently whispering amongst themselves once more.

Throwing the kitchen towel over this shoulder, he leaned against the door frame leading to the living room, narrowing his eyes playfully. "What are you two up to?"

Jack and Christopher's heads shot up and Lucien saw the panicked look in their eyes of boys planning mischief and almost being caught. Jack nudged Christopher in the side. "N-nothing, Lucien! We were wondering, though, can we make dinner tonight?"

The request wasn't unusual; the boys often helped in the kitchen, loving the way Lucien made every chore in the house a new adventure. But they had never offered to take over the duty themselves.

Well, Lucien certainly wasn't going to put an end to their mischief–not yet anyway. With a grin, he nodded. "Right-o. Your mum will be home in an hour or so, that enough time for your grand feast?"

The boys nodded happily and they ran to the kitchen. However, when Lucien turned to follow them and assist, they turned on their heels, pushing at his chest and stomach to stop him from entering the kitchen. "No, Lucien! We want to do it ourselves."

He hesitated. There were many dangers in the kitchen and although the boys certainly weren't toddlers, they were quite young to be around sharp knives and fire.

But looking down into the wide, earnest eyes of Jack and Christopher, he relented. Reaching out to ruffle their hair affectionately, he nodded. "Alright, go on. But if you need help–any at all–you call for me, alright? I'm just going to be outside taking the laundry down off the line."

Shaking his head with a soft smile, he left the boys to it. Outside, he carefully removed the clothing from the line, folding the sun-warmed clothes and keeping an ear out for any catastrophic sounds that may emanate from the kitchen.

But all he heard was the typical clangor of pots and pans and the sounds of the boy working together. Perhaps this would all work out for the best…

* * *

A short while later, he entered the house through side door, carrying the basket of freshly folded clothing into the house. Just as he turned the corner to head for the boys' bedroom, he saw the front door open and Jean step inside.

His breath caught in his throat at the sight of her: cheeks flushed red from the heat of the day and and her skirt and blouse wrinkled from the day's work. No matter how she looked, he always thought her beautiful.

Jean looked up from slipping her shoes and coat off and smiled at him, soft and warm. Lucien cradled these smiles within his heart and he treasured each one.

"Something smells good?" She frowned, looking around for the boys who normally rushed to greet her at the door. "Where are Jack and Christopher?"

Hiking the laundry basket up on his hip, he gestured to the kitchen. "Your boys are handling dinner tonight. Don't worry," he hastened to add at her alarmed look. "They have everything handled and I kept an ear out for anything too disastrous."

They shared a grin, both familiar with the boys' tendency to get more than a little rowdy and raucous. Lucien, nodded to the laundry in his arms. "I'll just go put this away and then I'll leave you all to it."

It was the worst part of his day: leaving the warmth and happiness of the Beazley home behind and returning to his cold, lifeless flat, alone and wishing he were back at Jean's side and watching over the boys.

Jean reached out and squeezed his arm before entering the kitchen to see what her boys had gotten up to. He watched her go, admiring the curve of her back side and the shapely nature of her legs before catching himself in the act. With a shake of his head, he headed for Jack and Christopher's room. It was no use lingering on the things he could never have, after all.

* * *

Lucien entered the kitchen, prepared to say his goodbyes and then drown himself in a bottle of whiskey, willing tomorrow to come sooner rather than later so he could return to this famiy. But the sight in front of him stopped him dead in his tracks.

The kitchen table had been covered in fine linen, two candlesticks had been haphazardly stuck in makeshift candleholders and lit, wine had been placed on the table, and the table had been set for two. Jean was sitting before one setting, hiding a smile behind her hand.

Lucien looked over and saw Jack and Christopher standing together, chests stuck out proudly. Jack stepped forward with a dramatic bow and pulled out the seat opposite Jean, "Your seat, sir."

Looking to Jean in surprise, she simply nodded, still smiling. Lucien took the offered seat while Christopher stepped forward and slipped a napkin over his lap.

"Boys, there's only two settings here. Where will you two scoundrels be dining this evening?"

They grinned at each other, the picture of innocence. "We ate while we were cooking, Lucien. So, it'll just be you and mum tonight." The scampered back to the stove and carried over the bowl of steaming hot pasta and tomato sauce. Christopher served while Jack grated cheese over their plates. When they were done they stepped back and folded their hands behind their backs.

"We're just–"

"–Going to bed."

And with that, they fled the kitchen, dimming the kitchen lights so the room was illuminated by the candlelight alone, leaving a bewildered Lucien and a laughing Jean.

Lifting her fork and digging into the bowl of pasta before her, Jean began to eat. Lucien followed suit. "Not exactly subtle, are they?"

Jean laughed through the mouthful of pasta. "What gave it away? The wine or the candles?"

He raised an eyebrow at her. "You don't seem upset by their attempts at matchmaking."

Jean's cheeks flushed with color and she swallowed the mouthful of pasta and took a sip of her wine. "If it means my boys are cooking and doing something other than running amuck and causing mischief? They can try and match me with Edward Tyneman, for all I care."

Lucien's heart sank and he stabbed his pasta with more vigor than intended. Of course Jean wasn't affected by the prospect of an evening with him. He was just the help.

Putting on a smile for her, he raised his glass. "Then a toast to your sons and the fact that I am _not_ Edward Tyneman."

Their glasses clinked softly and from there, the evening seemed to pass in easy conversation, Jean filling him in on her day and Lucien regaling her with tales of the boys' secretive antics all day.

The candlesticks burned low, the wax melting over the holders. The evening seemed to be coming to an end and Lucien rose to clear away the dishes, stacking them in the sink while Jean cleared the table, blowing the candles out and corking the wine.

An awkward silence fell upon them and Lucien shuffled his feet for a moment, hand rubbing nervously at the back of his neck. The tell-tale urge to confess everything to her bubbled up on his wine-loosened tongue.

And then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw two familiar figures dashing to the living room and the slow, soft strains of an old waltz filtered into the kitchen. He shook his head, ready to make a quip to Jean and then leave for the evening.

Better to leave now before he couldn't make himself leave at all.

But when he turned to face her, Jean had her eyes closed, her arms wrapped around her waist, swaying softly on the spot. Lucien's heart melted at the picture she presented and he found himself in front of her, offering his hand with a small bow.

"Oh, I do like that. Yes. Dance with me?"

Jean's eyes fluttered open and she smiled softly at him, nodding and placing her hand in his. He tugged her close and all propriety seemed to dissolve between them as she slipped easily into his arms, head resting on her chest and arm around his waist. Her soft, stocking-covered feet stepped on his toes a few times and they simply laughed, twirling about the kitchen.

Their laughter turned into pensive silence and Lucien held her tightly, pretending, just for a moment, that this was real. That this was his home and Jean was his wife and their sons were simply trying to give them an evening alone.

Jean's fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt and she pulled away, looking up at him from under thick eyelashes. He looked down at her and he seemed to realize how close their faces were.

They stopped dancing, simply holding onto the other. Her head tilted up just so, as if offering him the chance to duck down and steal the kiss he so desperately desired.

"Lucien…"

Her eyes flickered closed and his heart pounded in his chest. Their lips were millimeters away, his top lip just brushing hers when there was an almighty _crash_!

Jack and Christopher spilled into the kitchen, red faced and glaring at each other. They had clearly been stacked one on top of the other, eavesdropping, and had gotten overzealous in their quest to catch a glimpse of their mother and caretaker finally kissing: the ultimate proof their plan had worked.

Jean and Lucien sprung apart, blushing profusely. They avoided the other's gaze and Lucien stared at the tangled arms and legs of the boys on the floor. With a sigh, he shook his head.

"I think that's my cue to leave." He leaned over and dared to press a kiss to Jean's cheek. "Good night, Jean."

He stepped over the boys and squatted down beside them, shaking his head fondly at them and whispered, "Good try, boys. See you tomorrow."

And with that, he stepped into the hallway and into the cool night air, breathing deeply, his heart racing, the events of the evening immediately replaying in his mind. He grinned to himself.

He had almost kissed Jean Beazley.

Maybe there was a chance for them after all….


End file.
